At the Stroke of Madness (24 page)

D
r. Stolz didn’t bother to hide his displeasure. Maggie saw the scowl he gave Sheriff Watermeier—it was the third or fourth one of the day, Maggie had lost count. The sheriff announced he needed to leave but that she was welcome to stay. For a brief moment she expected Stolz to forbid it. But how could he? Instead, he muttered something into his mask about outsiders. Maggie got the impression he didn’t just mean her, but Watermeier, as well.

She wasn’t sure why she stayed. The only reason she was here was to identify Joan Begley. Perhaps she hoped that this victim, this woman, might be able to provide some answers of where Maggie could start looking for Gwen’s missing patient.

She watched from beside the stainless steel table. Her hands stayed in her pockets beneath the gown. It was an effort to keep them from helping, part instinct and part annoying habit. Already once she had reached for a forceps, stopping herself before Stolz could see.

He was slow. Slow but not necessarily meticulous. In fact, his movements seemed a bit sloppy, slicing here and there around the edges of the body cavity, reminding Maggie of a fisherman severing all the linings before gutting a fish in one swift scoop. It wasn’t the usual reverence she was accustomed to seeing medical examiners use. Perhaps it was simply a performance for her benefit. At first she worried that he would use the less-popular Rokitansky procedure where all the organs come out at once—one block of the internal system—instead of the Virchow method where each organ was removed separately to be examined.

She watched him cut with his elbow bent, hand zigging back and forth, a strange, almost sawing motion. But then she was relieved to see his gloved fingers reach in and scoop out the lungs, one at a time. First the right lung, which he plopped on the scale, then he yelled over the utensil tray to the recorder on the counter, “Right lung, 680 grams.” He dropped it into a container of for-malyn and scooped up the left one. “Left lung, 510 grams. Color in both, pink.”

Maggie disagreed. She wanted to mention that the left lung was not quite as pink as the right, but kept quiet. It wasn’t enough to note. No signs of foul play, at least none that had affected the lungs. In the killer’s mutilation to get at the breast implants, he hadn’t even punctured the lungs. And there wasn’t enough discoloration to indicate that the woman had ever been a smoker. The darker pink of the left lung may have only suggested that she had spent a good deal of her life as a city dweller.

Dr. Stolz picked up a needle and syringe off the tray, looked it over, then exchanged it for a larger one. He inserted the needle into the heart, drawing blood into the syringe. The heart showed definite signs of being punctured by the killer. Maggie could easily see a cut that didn’t belong, next to the area where Stolz took his sample. Satisfied, he labeled the sample and set aside the syringe, but he didn’t bother to remove the heart. Instead, he moved down to the stomach.

Maggie didn’t let him see her impatience. Okay, so he had his own way of doing things.

Of all the incredible workings and mysteries of the human body, Maggie always thought the stomach to be one of the most whimsical of the organs. It resembled a small, saggy pink pouch. A simple and soft touch of a scalpel was usually all that was needed to slit it open, and Stolz, despite his bull-in-a-china-shop approach, handled this organ with a gentleness that surprised Maggie. He laid it on a small stainless steel tray of its own, slit it open slowly and carefully. Using just his fingertips, he spread back the walls. Then, reverting to his normal routine, he grabbed a stainless steel ladle and began scooping out the contents, pouring them into a small basin on the tray.

Maggie moved around the table for a closer look. Stolz didn’t seem to mind. Now he seemed excited and anxious to share.

“Still lots here,” he said, continuing to scoop and stir the contents, clanking the metal ladle against the metal side of the basin with each pour. “This might be our best estimate of time of death. Being in that barrel threw off too many of the other indicators.”

So that was why he was so interested. Finally, something to show off his expertise.

“Is that green pepper?” Maggie asked.

“Green pepper, onions, maybe pepperoni. Looks like she had pizza. Lots still here, which means she was most likely murdered shortly after her meal.”

“What do you think? Two hours?” Maggie knew that almost ninety-five-percent of food moved out of the stomach within two hours of being consumed. However, it wasn’t an exact science, either. There were things that sped up digestion, just as there were things that slowed it, stress being a major factor.

“Not much has made it into to the small intestine yet,” he said, his fingers back in the body cavity examining the coil of intestine. “I’d guess less than two hours. Closer to one.”

“So the next question, can you tell whether or not it was frozen or restaurant style?”

He looked up at her with raised eyebrows. “The pizza? Why in the world would that matter?”

“If it was restaurant style, chances are she ate out that night. Maybe even with someone. We might be able to track where she was—and with whom—right before she was murdered.”

“Well, that’s simply impossible to know,” he told her, shaking his head. “But—” he seemed to reconsider as he stirred the contents with what looked like an ordinary butter knife “—the colors, especially of the vegetables, seem brighter than normal, which from my experience could indicate that they were fresh and not frozen.”

Maggie brought out a pocket notebook and jotted down the contents. When she looked back up, Stolz was staring at her, his arms folded over his chest. The scowl had returned and was now directed at her, the only person left to try his patience.

“You can’t be serious?” he said. “You think the killer took her out for pizza first, then bashed in her head and sliced out her breast implants? That’s absurd.”

“Really? And why do you say that, Dr. Stolz?” It was her turn to grow impatient with his questioning of her expertise, his distrust that an outsider might have an answer.

“For one thing, that would suggest it could be someone local.”

“And you don’t think that’s possible?”

“This is the middle of Connecticut, Agent O’Dell. Maybe on the coast or closer to New York. This guy, whoever he may be, is using the quarry as a dumping ground for his sick game. My guess is that he lives miles away. Why would he risk dumping bodies in his own backyard?”

“Didn’t Richard Craft do that?”

“Who?”

“Richard Craft, the guy who killed his wife and then put her dismembered body through a wood chipper.” She watched Stolz’s expression go from arrogance to embarrassment. “In the middle of a snowstorm, if I’m not mistaken, and not far from his home in Newtown. Newtown, Connecticut—isn’t that just west of here?”

D
r. Stolz didn’t bother to hide his displeasure. Maggie saw the scowl he gave Sheriff Watermeier—it was the third or fourth one of the day, Maggie had lost count. The sheriff announced he needed to leave but that she was welcome to stay. For a brief moment she expected Stolz to forbid it. But how could he? Instead, he muttered something into his mask about outsiders. Maggie got the impression he didn’t just mean her, but Watermeier, as well.

She wasn’t sure why she stayed. The only reason she was here was to identify Joan Begley. Perhaps she hoped that this victim, this woman, might be able to provide some answers of where Maggie could start looking for Gwen’s missing patient.

She watched from beside the stainless steel table. Her hands stayed in her pockets beneath the gown. It was an effort to keep them from helping, part instinct and part annoying habit. Already once she had reached for a forceps, stopping herself before Stolz could see.

He was slow. Slow but not necessarily meticulous. In fact, his movements seemed a bit sloppy, slicing here and there around the edges of the body cavity, reminding Maggie of a fisherman severing all the linings before gutting a fish in one swift scoop. It wasn’t the usual reverence she was accustomed to seeing medical examiners use. Perhaps it was simply a performance for her benefit. At first she worried that he would use the less-popular Rokitansky procedure where all the organs come out at once—one block of the internal system—instead of the Virchow method where each organ was removed separately to be examined.

She watched him cut with his elbow bent, hand zigging back and forth, a strange, almost sawing motion. But then she was relieved to see his gloved fingers reach in and scoop out the lungs, one at a time. First the right lung, which he plopped on the scale, then he yelled over the utensil tray to the recorder on the counter, “Right lung, 680 grams.” He dropped it into a container of for-malyn and scooped up the left one. “Left lung, 510 grams. Color in both, pink.”

Maggie disagreed. She wanted to mention that the left lung was not quite as pink as the right, but kept quiet. It wasn’t enough to note. No signs of foul play, at least none that had affected the lungs. In the killer’s mutilation to get at the breast implants, he hadn’t even punctured the lungs. And there wasn’t enough discoloration to indicate that the woman had ever been a smoker. The darker pink of the left lung may have only suggested that she had spent a good deal of her life as a city dweller.

Dr. Stolz picked up a needle and syringe off the tray, looked it over, then exchanged it for a larger one. He inserted the needle into the heart, drawing blood into the syringe. The heart showed definite signs of being punctured by the killer. Maggie could easily see a cut that didn’t belong, next to the area where Stolz took his sample. Satisfied, he labeled the sample and set aside the syringe, but he didn’t bother to remove the heart. Instead, he moved down to the stomach.

Maggie didn’t let him see her impatience. Okay, so he had his own way of doing things.

Of all the incredible workings and mysteries of the human body, Maggie always thought the stomach to be one of the most whimsical of the organs. It resembled a small, saggy pink pouch. A simple and soft touch of a scalpel was usually all that was needed to slit it open, and Stolz, despite his bull-in-a-china-shop approach, handled this organ with a gentleness that surprised Maggie. He laid it on a small stainless steel tray of its own, slit it open slowly and carefully. Using just his fingertips, he spread back the walls. Then, reverting to his normal routine, he grabbed a stainless steel ladle and began scooping out the contents, pouring them into a small basin on the tray.

Maggie moved around the table for a closer look. Stolz didn’t seem to mind. Now he seemed excited and anxious to share.

“Still lots here,” he said, continuing to scoop and stir the contents, clanking the metal ladle against the metal side of the basin with each pour. “This might be our best estimate of time of death. Being in that barrel threw off too many of the other indicators.”

So that was why he was so interested. Finally, something to show off his expertise.

“Is that green pepper?” Maggie asked.

“Green pepper, onions, maybe pepperoni. Looks like she had pizza. Lots still here, which means she was most likely murdered shortly after her meal.”

“What do you think? Two hours?” Maggie knew that almost ninety-five-percent of food moved out of the stomach within two hours of being consumed. However, it wasn’t an exact science, either. There were things that sped up digestion, just as there were things that slowed it, stress being a major factor.

“Not much has made it into to the small intestine yet,” he said, his fingers back in the body cavity examining the coil of intestine. “I’d guess less than two hours. Closer to one.”

“So the next question, can you tell whether or not it was frozen or restaurant style?”

He looked up at her with raised eyebrows. “The pizza? Why in the world would that matter?”

“If it was restaurant style, chances are she ate out that night. Maybe even with someone. We might be able to track where she was—and with whom—right before she was murdered.”

“Well, that’s simply impossible to know,” he told her, shaking his head. “But—” he seemed to reconsider as he stirred the contents with what looked like an ordinary butter knife “—the colors, especially of the vegetables, seem brighter than normal, which from my experience could indicate that they were fresh and not frozen.”

Maggie brought out a pocket notebook and jotted down the contents. When she looked back up, Stolz was staring at her, his arms folded over his chest. The scowl had returned and was now directed at her, the only person left to try his patience.

“You can’t be serious?” he said. “You think the killer took her out for pizza first, then bashed in her head and sliced out her breast implants? That’s absurd.”

“Really? And why do you say that, Dr. Stolz?” It was her turn to grow impatient with his questioning of her expertise, his distrust that an outsider might have an answer.

“For one thing, that would suggest it could be someone local.”

“And you don’t think that’s possible?”

“This is the middle of Connecticut, Agent O’Dell. Maybe on the coast or closer to New York. This guy, whoever he may be, is using the quarry as a dumping ground for his sick game. My guess is that he lives miles away. Why would he risk dumping bodies in his own backyard?”

“Didn’t Richard Craft do that?”

“Who?”

“Richard Craft, the guy who killed his wife and then put her dismembered body through a wood chipper.” She watched Stolz’s expression go from arrogance to embarrassment. “In the middle of a snowstorm, if I’m not mistaken, and not far from his home in Newtown. Newtown, Connecticut—isn’t that just west of here?”